by Cole McCade
He’d known it was a fucking mistake.
He’d known it was a fucking mistake, because Rian was going to put on that polite frozen smile and act like he’d made some kind of lapse in judgment, forgetting his goddamned manners to do something so crass and pointless and illogical as fucking Damon in a moment of emotional weakness.
Fuck, maybe it had been emotional weakness for Damon, too.
Because by the light of day, he was wondering what the hell he’d been thinking, expecting any goddamned thing different when this whole thing shook out.
But he just didn’t have the heart to fight it out.
He didn’t think he could take turning it into another snappish, snarling exchange of insults and cold deflections when he could still feel the faint burn of Rian’s nails in his back; still feel that lithe body moving under him in slow undulations; still taste how luscious Rian had been gasping Damon, Damon, Damon.
Maybe it hadn’t meant a damned thing.
But he didn’t want to turn it sour in his memory, nonetheless.
Not when for a few quiet moments last night...
It had been sweet, and still, and all the comfort he had needed to make him feel not so very alone.
So he held his tongue while he and Rian awkwardly slipped into their clothing; Damon just stuck with the jeans he’d worn last night, and he’d just shower and change on his own time after Rian left—while Rian tugged on his discarded caftan and linen pants, moving shyly and as if trying not to expose too much of his body, while Damon politely kept his back turned as if they were strangers and hadn’t clutched at each other and crashed themselves together until Damon knew what Rian felt like from the inside in the most breathless, intimate way.
Stop thinking about it.
He zipped his jeans, then turned to find Rian standing in the middle of the floor, clutching his hand against one arm and glancing toward the window, eyes distant, closed over. Damon took a deep breath, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth and reminding himself to just...
Let it go.
He’d managed not to send his phone ricocheting across the room with how hard he’d kicked his jeans off last night, and he fished it out of his pocket now, sinking down to sit on the arm of his recliner. “I’ll try calling this time. If she sees the same number twice and she’s avoiding dealing with her kid, she might not pick up.”
“Okay,” Rian said—quiet, absent, as if he was hardly listening, but after a moment Rian drifted over to the recliner and sank down on the opposite arm, folding his hands gracefully in his lap. He darted Damon an uncertain look, then looked away. “Is there anything you need me to do?”
“Depends on if she picks up. Give me a second.”
Fuck, Damon was just...glad for something to occupy him, to pull his attention away from Rian and the frustration building up inside him. He leaned over to flip his laptop lid up—and ignored how close it brought him to Rian, Rian’s thigh warm and almost touching Damon’s shoulder. He lingered only long enough to wait for the black screen to light up, still on the intranet page with the Northcotes’ contact information, before he pulled away to tap in the number and lift it to his ear.
Every ring that passed grated on his nerves; nails on a goddamned chalkboard, taking his already unsettled mood and pulling it into a knot of chaotic yarn, impossible and tangled and frustrating him far more than it should. And when the call flicked over to voicemail after five rings, it took everything in him not to snarl into the phone; he stopped himself, swallowed back the sharp words on his tongue, and forced his tone to even out.
“Mrs. Northcote,” he said. “This is Coach Damon Louis at Albin Academy. I’m following up on my colleague’s call from last night; it’s—” really fucking goddamned “—extremely urgent that you call us back about Chris as quickly as possible. You can reach Mr. Falwell at the number he left, contact the school administrators, or call me at...”
He spilled out his number—then hung up the phone quickly, before the voicemail could catch the “God damn it” bubbling up into a snarl and spilling past his lips.
Troubled hazel eyes watched him. “It’s been less than twenty-four hours,” Rian offered.
“It feels like twenty-four fucking years.” Damon stared down at his phone, squeezing it so tight it cut into his palm. “Is it that hard to pick up the goddamned phone?”
“Apparently so. The fabulously busy lives of the wealthy.”
It came out as bitter as Damon felt. He clenched his teeth, then asked, “Did you ever finish that email last night?”
“No.” Rian shook his head and fretted his hands together, then reached for Damon’s laptop, only to pause with his hands hovering just over it. “Is it still okay...?”
“Go ahead.”
With a soft sound of affirmative, Rian nodded and scooped the laptop up; Damon tried not to even look at him, let alone notice that Rian made the most overly serious face of concentration while he was typing, nose scrunched and the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth.
Nope. Not looking at all.
And completely unprepared to be caught not looking as Rian abruptly lifted his head, spinning the laptop against his thighs and turning the screen toward Damon so Damon could see the draft.
Clearing his throat, Damon leaned in, narrowing his eyes at the screen and not the pale hands framing it.
Mr. and Mrs. Northcote,
I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion, but my coworker Coach Louis and I have been trying to get in touch with you regarding Chris and urgent matters pertaining to his performance at Albin Academy. Please reply to us at your earliest convenience, either by phone or email. We absolutely must speak with you regarding Chris before the end of the week.
Thank you for your time,
Mr. Rian Falwell
Art & Media Curriculum Instructor, Albin Academy
He frowned, leaning back. “Pretty vague.”
Rian gave a listless little shrug. “Personal assistants. More likely to see the email first.” He turned the laptop back to face him, balancing it on one thigh, his fingers hovering poised over the touchpad. “We’re supposed to be protecting confidentiality, aren’t we?” His gaze flicked over the screen, the image of the intranet email client reflecting in his eyes, turning them to golden mirrors. “His student file says his parents are agents representing some rather big names in Hollywood. They themselves aren’t often the focus of the spotlight, but their clients are. Paparazzi do hover, looking for a way in through any back door they can find.” His mouth tightened at the corners. “And if they’re anything like my parents, it’s possible they have an idea of some role in the spotlight for Chris in the future. He’s attractive. Charismatic. He’d sell well on the big screen. So he’d be a target, too.” Rian’s voice had turned soft, wistful, reflective as he spoke—but now it flattened, professional and cool. “I’m just trying to protect him from that possibility. We just don’t know who’ll be receiving this, in the end.”
There it was again—that irritating urge to console Rian, when Damon had learned the hard way in the last day exactly where that got him.
So why the hell did he want that feeling back?
Fuck—Rian probably had it right. They were just too much of a mess together, all odds and evens, coming at each other in all the wrong ways. They didn’t fit. Fuck, they were practically anathema to each other, and yet...
Last night, they had just felt right.
And he didn’t understand how that was possible.
How they could be so different, and yet sometimes those moments just clicked where they felt good together; where they fit together like they belonged, this connection that made their differences melt away—and for the first time in a long time Damon didn’t feel like he was trying to straddle two worlds when he had never wholly belonged in either.
He just felt like...like he was pa
rt of something all its own; something made just for him, where he didn’t have to try to belong because he just...
Did.
“You’re so quiet,” Rian murmured, never lifting his gaze from the laptop. “What’s wrong?”
Everything.
“Nothing,” Damon said. “Just thinking. Maybe they are, too. Trying to protect him from unwanted spotlight, I mean.”
Rian’s brows furrowed. “How...?”
“You said Chris is a good kid. No reason to banish him out here if he hasn’t done anything wrong; if he’s the model son, nobody’s embarrassment or problem child.” Damon shrugged, lacing his hands together against his thigh. “Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they wanted to give him a chance to grow up without the people who dog their careers dogging his heels, pushing at him about his life choices and where he belongs.”
“That’s...that’s a more benign interpretation than I’d have thought of.” Rian lifted his head, looking at Damon, the carefully blank glassiness of his eyes clearing for a moment, trouble dwelling in hazel-dark depths. “I hope you’re right, Damon.”
“Send it. Let’s find out.”
Rian lingered on him for a moment more, as if he’d say something else—before he looked down quickly, and gave the mouse touchpad a definitive tap. “Sent,” he said, then sighed, drooping. “It would make me feel better about at least part of this. Knowing Chris has parents who’ll care that something’s wrong.”
“I hope they care enough to fucking call back,” Damon growled irritably.
“And if they don’t?”
“Depends on what Chris is willing to say to us.”
Rian glanced away, peering out the window, one hand rising to tuck his hair back before he leaned forward and absently deposited the laptop on the coffee table again. “Think we should go try to talk to him again?”
“He might be a little more talkative after a night of rest and some time to think.”
And Damon might be a little less jumpy and grouchy with something to focus on other than Rian—those ever-mercurial moods, the delicacy of his movements, the way Damon was suddenly all too familiar with the lines and smooth shapes of the body hidden under his loose, flowing clothing. With a mutter under his breath, Damon levered himself off the recliner and stood, dipping to scoop up his discarded shirt from the floor.
“C’mon.”
“I...ah...” Rian cleared his throat, standing and brushing at his clothing. “I’ll meet you there.”
Damon pulled his shirt over his head, frowning as he settled the hem around his waist. “Yeah...?”
“I’m still wearing what I had on yesterday.” Rian’s smile was sheepish, strained, but his face was red from his scalp to his neck. “So are you. It...um...it might raise some questions.”
Yeah.
I got some damn questions.
Like how much of that shit you threw at me was a lie, when you won’t even look me in the goddamned eye.
But Damon ground every sharp comment between his teeth, and only nodded, stepping aside to give Rian a clear path to the door. “Fair enough.”
Rian fidgeted in place, shifting from foot to foot, then dipped to pick up Damon’s copy of A Princess in Theory from the coffee table and clutched it to his chest in both hands; he practically sidestepped Damon toward the door, then walked backward until he stopped with his back against the frame, his eyes darting toward Damon, then away; for some goddamned reason when Rian didn’t make any sense sometimes, his blush deepened.
“I’ll see you soon...?”
“We’re going to the same place,” Damon pointed out flatly.
“O-of course.” With a flustered sound, Rian reached back and fumbled for the doorknob, clumsily twisting and tugging the door open so he could take a step back across the threshold. “I...later, then.”
“Sure,” Damon said. “Yeah. Okay.”
But Rian was already gone—the door swinging closed, the latch clicking.
And Damon just...groaned, and thudded his head against the wall next to the bed hard enough to make the boards creak.
Mother fuck.
Just...
Mother fuck.
Chapter Thirteen
Rian didn’t know what to do with his hands.
He stood outside the infirmary, trying not to pace—trying not to move at all, really, when now that he’d showered and changed into jeans and an oversized cashmere cowl-necked sweater, he was much more sore than he’d initially realized, both inside and out...and every time he moved it twinged with a deep, pressing inner ache that reminded him far too much of the man he was trying very much not to think about.
The man he was waiting for right now, while Rian stood stiffly and awkwardly with his hands clasped together in front of him like an errant schoolchild waiting for the bus, feeling like a complete and utter ass and not quite sure what to do with his hands—or himself—at all.
He was...he just wanted to keep things casual. That was all. Not give away how nervous he was at the idea of seeing Damon again, even after just a few short minutes apart; not betray the erratic skip-hop beat of his heart, how he couldn’t seem to even out his breaths, how just the faintest throb of the subtle bruise-marks Damon had left on his waist made Rian’s face ignite with a blush he couldn’t exactly conceal when he was the kind of pale that couldn’t tan even if he spent all day staring right into the sun.
He wanted to be able to smile and mean it, when he saw Damon.
Smile, mean it...and not make Damon uncomfortable having to deal with Rian’s head and heart rioting all over the place and thrashing about where they didn’t belong.
So. Casual posture, right? Relaxed. At ease.
No problem at all.
He tried leaning his shoulders against the wall next to the door and crossing his ankles, but then he felt like he was playing coy and simpery with his fingers laced together in front of him. Maybe arms folded over his chest? He tried that, but now he was all hunched in on himself uncomfortably and standing so stiffly, the posture completely unnatural for him and his hands tucked under his arms like he was trying to stay warm on a cold day. Hm. Okay. Straighten up, then. Hands in the pockets of his jeans...except he was just...scrunching his shoulders up and planting his feet awkwardly wide and he must look like a complete and utter dork, and once again his hands and arms were the problem when he kept jutting his elbows out like turkey wings.
When did standing get to be so hard?
He stole a glance down the hall, but no sign of Damon yet. Good. The last thing he needed was Damon coming down the stairwell from his corner room and spilling out into the hall to find Rian frozen in the middle of these odd social acrobatics, posing himself around like a bizarre doll and making a total weirdo out of himself.
Maybe if he just...leaned one hand against the wall, let himself slouch lazily, he could pull off casual and natural instead of ready to jitter out of his own skin.
Why had he forgotten how to occupy his own body?
I feel like a sack of bees in a human-shaped bag.
Grumbling to himself, he braced a palm against the frame of the infirmary door and leaned, cocking his foot so his toes propped against the floor, only to—
“...what are you doing?” rumbled over his shoulder.
“Oh—!” Heart stumbling, Rian whipped about...and barely caught a glimpse of Damon towering over him, looking down at him with the most puzzled expression, before Rian’s palm slipped on the door frame and he went reeling to one side, stomach going end-over-end while Rian tumbled toward going ass-over-elbows.
Only for a strong arm to hook around his waist, hefting him up easily, and this time his stomach flipped for different reasons when for just a second, that hard grip pressed him against the full length and breadth of Damon’s body—so much warmth soaking into him, like standing against the sun, and the
hard-crafted chisels of Damon’s physique pressing into Rian from neck to toe, reminding him of that heavy shape pressing him down to the bed and...
They sprang apart as if by mutual agreement, Damon’s arm dropping away and leaving Rian free to stumble back, catching himself with his back against the wall and taking several shallow, shaky breaths before composing himself.
Just.
Keep your shit together Falwell, and it sounded so much like Damon that Rian almost smiled, holding on to that and calming himself the hell down when he was the one who said they should be adults about this, instead of acting like nervous teenagers.
“Thanks,” he managed to get out, and was almost proud that it only came out slightly strained.
Damon looked rather pointedly across the hall, rubbing a broad hand against the back of his neck, his expression blank; his hair was still wet from a shower, and it dripped darkened spatters against his light green T-shirt, and idly Rian wondered if Damon deliberately bought his shirts one size too small, or if they’d all conveniently shrunk in the wash.
“Yeah,” Damon muttered.
“I wasn’t—I thought you’d be coming from that way.” Rian jerked his chin down the hall.
“Stopped by my office first. Wanted to see if there was another contact number for the Northcotes on Chris’s permission slip.”
“And...?”
“Not a damned thing.” Damon’s shoulders moved restlessly, more of a jerk than a shrug. “So. We get Chris to talk, or we wait for his parents to call and they can get him to talk.”
Rian swept a bow, gesturing toward the infirmary door. “After you.”
That earned him an acerbic look. “You just want me to be the meat shield if Hadley’s still mad at us.”
“Am I that obvious?” Rian smiled sunnily. “You did offer already with Walden.”
“... Hadley’s more terrifying than Walden.” But the tightness in Damon’s shoulders eased, and he cast Rian an amused look as he pressed his palm against the door and pushed it open. “Here we go.”